


over and done with

by rathxritter



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Actors, F/M, Happy Ending, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-24 06:50:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20354191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rathxritter/pseuds/rathxritter
Summary: Leopold James Fitz and Jemma Anne Simmons are known by the public as FitzSimmons. Their relationship is unpindownable and undeniably strong: they're sort of best friends, sort of soulmates, sort of lovers. And now Jemma is back for good.





	over and done with

**Author's Note:**

  * For [for_the_love_of_wolves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_the_love_of_wolves/gifts).

> Unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine.

Motes of dust are dancing in the air - tiresomely, bewitchingly, relentlessly - as the late afternoon sun shines through the window. The air is luminous, the light reflects on every surface and makes the room appear bright and filled with light, the edges of reality seem softened and the appearance is almost dreamlike. A sunny day after a week of uninterrupted bad weather, classic Scottish summer.The air is fresh and a soft breeze is blowing, making it impossible to relate to any of the complaints about yet another European heat wave. A clear blue sky that is only starting to turn yellow and red, dusk quickly approaching, on the horizon, far away, some darker clouds - streaks of grey, dark enough to put the weather forecast into question.

The sound of cars and busses going down the road reaches them through the open windows: The ending of yet another working day, people about to go home. Edinburgh is buzzing, the Fringe festival is still going on and there's the usual hint of excitement hanging in the air, anticipation at what's to come. Signs everywhere, advertising new plays that may or may not make their debut in bigger venues. Areas on the Royal Mile, between Cockburn Street and George IV Bridge, and the Mound Precinct completely packed with people, audience to many street events. Chattering and exclamations of surprise, High Street always seems to come alive: That itself is an experience worth living.

An August holiday lark, as they've been calling it for years. There's no real interest in the Fringe Festival, not today, even though there's plenty of plays and performances about Britain's political climate and that reckless decision made by the former prime minister to please people among his own political party. Plenty of time ahead of them. Instead, they've slept in until ten o'clock and taken things slowly: went for lunch in Newhaven, to get fish and chips and eat it while looking at the pier, and then a walk to Portobello, straight ahead for four miles, to spend the afternoon on the beach. A ninety-nine eaten while sitting on an old blanket placed on the sand - a stolen kiss, the sweet aftertaste of vanilla and raspberry. Then back to Edinburgh, slowly, Jemma laughing for the second time in that day at the gigantic Costa cup and later at The Pond in Bath Street, to run errands: tea bought in a small shop on Princes Street, a quick stop at Blackwell's to get that book he ordered weeks ago, and then an hour spent sitting on a bench in Princes Street Gardens, looking at the crowd and the seagulls.

Now, they're standing in Fitz's kitchen, the sun is blinding and makes his hair look blonder, almost golden as he is opens the fridge to get the Irn-Bru out. His pyjama trousers hang loosely on his hips and the t-shirt he's wearing is at least ten years old - faded colours and quite worn out, a gift from Jemma after his first Shakespearian role, he doesn't have the strength to throw it away. 

"Shall I remind you of some of the choicest remarks you made about me when we first met?" asks Jemma as she leans against the doorframe.

Fitz feels her eyes on him, studying his every move with care and attention, though she might as well be looking the unnatural colour of the drink in his glass, ready to make some sarcastic remark about it looking like dish-washing soap. It's a conversation they've had plenty of times, ad nauseam, well-known and familiar like they've rehearsed their lines. The very best of verbatim theatre performed in a small kitchen on a late August afternoon.

"Because they live in my mind as fresh as on the day they were made."

He looks up, looking at her over the rim of his glass. The oversized t-shirt she's wearing looks strangely familiar and hangs down on one shoulder, exposing her freckled skin. Wet hair that frames her face, small droplets of water have clearly run down and fallen onto the cotton fabric of her t-shirt, leaving small dark dots on it. Irresistible, she looks irresistible, he could just walk to her and take her in his arms, kiss her, open mouthed and lead her towards the bedroom. Sex an escape from this sense of domesticity, oppressing and intense, it would be new even for them. To stand here looking at her, is like a window to another universe, different versions of themselves - wiser, bolder, braver. Honest. Sex is something they know well, it's something that's been going on for years, it's the feelings that accompany it that leave him dismayed and out of his depth. This, a sight he could get used to, a sight he's missed, a sight that makes him reconsider all of his life choices.

"Which ones are you talking about?"

"You don't remember?"

"Oh, I remember." He stops and exhales sharply, his breath cutting the air, and puts his glass down. A loud clack as the glass touches the Formica counter. The orange liquid oscillates precariously for a couple of seconds before settling down, the surface smooth again. "I remember exactly. But I've said lots of things, Jemma, you cannot expect me to remember all of them."

The first thing he remembers saying about her is that her casting was preposterous and she'd probably end up ruining the whole production. A night out with Hunter and one beer too many, the words slipped easily out of his mouth. Jemma Anne Simmons, the Jemma Anne Simmons, she had never been to drama school and he was a bit of a reversed snob. They were about to do a Čechov retelling: he had no experience, fresh out of school, and Jemma had made her big debut on-screen the previous months. She was alright acting in front of a camera, he remembers telling Hunter, but they were talking about theatre and he was sure she's ruin it all. It's strange to think about it now, after so many years, more than ten but who's counting, because the details elude him and when he thinks about her and the years spent working together, all that comes up are his feelings. Inescapable and unavoidable, they keep him awake at night.

"You said, and I quote you verbatim, that I was so English."

"Aren't you?" He jokes.

"Almost too English."

And that she is. All prim, proper and bottled up: she never talked and never talks about her feelings. It's poison, dripping down from one generation to the other, and if just once in her life, she'd say something and call him out, they'd stand a chance. She's as guilty as he is and so they go through life whispering, deferring and agreeing, tiptoeing around each other without ever bring up the one subject they both long to discuss. Even now. He looks into the living room, her cardigan ungallantly dismissed on the sofa on top of her hand bag - why not stop, why not leap, why not talk?

"You are." He pauses. "So English that it becomes frustrating."

Because what is this all about anyway? Fondness, because the theatre that allowed them to meet is closing down? Friendship, because she couldn't possibly miss his production of _Sunshine on Leith_? For all he knows, she's got her plane ticket booked already and is ready to fly back to the States in a couple of days. Leaving without ever resolving anything, it's a well-rehearsed situation, years of practice backing them up. It's a limbo and it always feels like walking in a quagmire, lacking the strength for confrontation. Stay, he wants to tell her now, stepping closer to her and taking her hand in his. Stay to explore all possibilities and be far away from scrutinizing eyes. Let them go back and be themselves again, those two people who once kissed at a wrapping party and confessed that they wanted more from each other. Sex. Now, it's longer about sex, it's about everything else: a life, domesticity, not having to wait a year to see each other. They should stop pretending that it's just sex mixed with friendship and admit that maybe, perhaps, behind the friendship and the flirting and the jokes and the sex, there's something else that is there, within their reach, ready to be grabbed. Or maybe her staying would be a tragedy, she's got a life, he has to remind himself, a successful one, and he doesn't want to take it away from her. She's the one who has to say something, make a move, so as to either put them out of their misery or allow them to move on. Their friendship is solid, safe ground, it will survive refusal and heartbreak so why not proceed. But if they give up their friendship and replace it with a love affair, what do they lose for that?

Jemma scoffs and steps closer to him, light steps on the tiled floor. "How Scottish of you to pick a fight on those grounds."

"That doesn't even make sense, Jemma."

"Oh, yes, sure, because being so English does, doesn't it?"

He nods. "Listen, whatever I said... I want you to know that I also meant what I said in that interview five years ago."

"Which one?" She asks, a teasing smile on her face.

"The one where you kept interrupting me to finish all my sentences. We were doing that two-hander, eight shows a week. People were panicking because you were still filming that horrid TV-show and they fixed your schedule around your work here."

She shrugs and takes place on the kitchen counter, lifting herself with one quick movement. Her legs dangle over the edge, gently tapping against the drawers, and she takes his glass, studying it and taking a sip before grimacing.

"I really don't know how you can drink this stuff," she says. "Still, can't recall what you're talking about. But do enlighten me, please."

He's pretty sure she's lying - her eyes have a tendency to go piggy and she keeps her lips too pressed together, a thin red line, as if she's always trying not to laugh. Then again, maybe he owes it to her to repeat himself, make up for all his choicest remarks, and it doesn't matter when compliments come easily, he could spill them for days. A way of apologizing and make up for his unkind and wryly remarks.

Time eludes him, but he remembers hardly having any clarity to go through the interview. A morning in bed, naked inbetween the covers, nuzzling against her neck and peppering a trail of soft kisses on her back while his hands were already starting to wander. He remembers the compliments and the teasing smile they shared, quite aware of their secrets. They were playing them all. Not love, not back then: Friendship and lust, the most intriguing and extraordinary combination.

"I said that you were such an open and extraordinary person, that I could trust you personally and professionally. I said that you were one hell of a girl. Which you were. Are."

"Ah, that interview." She sighs and smiles at him, her whole face lighting up.

"That night we went to that terrible Italian restaurant and I said... I said, I'd love to go back to do some Shakespeare, it's been quite some time since The Winter's Tale. And you said, you said you had already done it... So there went my chance to do it with you. You had your ticket booked, for Sunday night, I had to get you to the airport and you didn't want to leave."

"I never want to leave. I never wanted to leave," she explains, her voice oozes off resignation as if someone forced her to go back to America, back to Hollywood, back to her horrid TV-show.

"Then why did you leave?"

"Opportunity." She pauses and looks away, out of the open window, summer's dusk over Edinburgh - a breathtaking scenario. "That new play in the States, it was too big to miss."

Čechov  closed and they kissed. A drunken kiss on the dance floor that left them hot and bothered, wanting more, needing more. A ludicrous feeling of having Jemma's face so close to his own. Elated and aroused they had walked back to their table only to act upon their feelings. They had looked longingly at each other and he had kissed her, tentatively, hungrily, and the moan at the back of her throat had marked the ultimate transformation. They had admitted of being best friends, of liking each other quite a lot, of wanting more. Later, throughout the years and in between the sheets, they went back to that moment so as to discuss it, always avoiding the most important question of all: would she have stayed, had he asked her to?

Looking at her now it seems obvious and inevitable that she ended up in Hollywood. Something about her, something that's always been there. Success suits her and seems like the best form of revenge: a long time ago, some newspaper called her one of the many upper-class girls who decide to take on acting, to say Jemma Simmons's performance was mediocre was to be kind and untruthful. Reviews can be quiet farfetched, they know that now, even though they're sure that critics just do their jobs - a well-informed bunch, he doesn't believe in the right of reply. Unkind and undeserved even though Jemma is posh and upper-class and does all her shopping at Waitrose, even though Waitrose sells the exact same things as any other shop only to at a higher price. That review fuelled her stubbornness - conquer America to prove them wrong.

"And it's fine, really," she says. "You won an Olivier for Coriolanus the following year. Thank God, I wasn't there to ruin the production with my mediocre acting skills."

"You know that's not true."

Jemma shrugs and looks at him. "Instead, I ended up on a show that should have been cancelled after its second season. Forget about Čechov, that show was a real train wreck. Well, at least I wasn't the only one who had never been to drama school."

"And it showed. It really showed."

"Shut up! Gosh, you're such a snob." She pauses. "And look at you with your BBC dramas and your Channel4 movies that no one's ever watched or heard of."

"They're fun!" He protests. "And there's always my theatre work. And I won two Oliviers, thank you very much."

"But no one's ever heard of you!"

"Does that matter?"

"I don't know, you tell me. You live in the shadows, your precious little life in Edinburgh, no big breakthrough. You're doing all of this just for yourself, it's annoying."

"I don't... Jemma, I-"

There's a video on the internet called "On Collaboration" and he remembers being so excited to do it because he and Jemma were doing it together. The idea was to discuss theatre, acting and performance through improvisation so as to inspire and start discussions. A life changing moment, the chance to talk about something he deeply cared about. And the comments, people insinuating that he and Jemma were shagging, that they were in a relationship and should announce it to the world, words that went way too far, crossing lines and boundaries. His privacy completely violated. They were shagging, but it was no one's business other than theirs and the entitlement, the constant suppositions and discussions. They were reduced to an item: FitzSimmons, no distinct lives, no distinct personalities. A week later he stepped back, back to his life, back to safety and privacy. And Jemma back in the States. He couldn't bear it. He felt dirty, judged, scrutinized. People didn't care about art or theatre or whatever, they cared about their personal lives and it was too much. Is too much. back into his comfort zone, away from the world. It's a life that he likes as much as it likes him, it suits him, he lives like the next person does and with such freedom!

"I acted like an arse," he goes on. "Was I insufferable?"

"A little bit. Every now and then. It doesn't matter anymore."

"But it does."

"No, it doesn't. I don't care. You live your life and I live mine, it's fine. Each to their own and all of that."

"No. No, I do care, it does matter. It matters to me." He pauses and takes another sip of Irn-Bru, trying to collect his thoughts and find the right words to say. It's a tricky matter, he feels as if his entire life depends on it. "Listen, I was wrong when I said that we shouldn't... I didn't want people to come and see us because we were a couple or we were dating or shagging or whatever. I want people to go and see a play because they might care about it, you've seen it yesterday... sometimes, it can mean a lot. It means a lot to me. This is where it all started."

"Yeah, playing the marred couple."

"Then you left for America without looking back. You weren't even gone and I was already missing working with you." He reaches her, standing in front of her, her hand in his. "I've missed you, every time you went away."

"I'm here now."

"That you are."

He coughs and tries to resist the irresistible impulse to kiss her. They kissed once and never talked about it. They had sex and never talked about it. Isn't she tired of it all? Isn't she tired of their undefined relationship, a relationship reduced to annual meetings and misery during their time apart. Isn't it time to discuss what they are and put an end to it all? Let them be brave. Let them leap feet first into the unknown.

"That you are," he repeats with slightly more emphasis.

"How's life moving between London and Edinburgh?"

"Why? Are you considering doing the same? Because the commute is a bit tricky and Hunter has just one sofa."

"I'm just asking, Fitz. It's called small talk."

"It's exhausting, but I could never move to London. Too chaotic, too crowded, too many tourists."

"It gave you an Olivier though."

"Two," he says matter-of-factly. "Two Oliviers."

"Fancy that." She smiles.

"But you've got quite a long filmography. And they pay you way more. They like you."

Jemma laughs loudly, a warm sound that fills the kitchen. "Does it matter? We used to promise each other that it never would."

"It doesn't, I'm happy. I did get some nasty reviews throughout the years though, I keep them all in a folder and read them when I need a laugh. It comes with the job, getting hammered, that is."

"Don't tell me."

"But they don't cast me to be the dad and that has to mean something."

"Gosh, that used to be your worst nightmare, remember?"

"Yeah."

Suddenly and unexpectedly, Jemma places her hand on his cheek and caresses his skin with her thumb, the contact light and feeble. Lingering and hesitant. They stand there for some time, the clock on top of the fridge loudly ticking the time away, before he steps closer to her and out of instinct she wraps her legs around him. His mouth against her palm, kissing it, her skin cold under his lips. Patiently and yielding, no sound could distract them - out of time and space, everything around them fading and disappearing, slowly becoming irrelevant.

He kisses her with confidence, his tongue parting her lips. Tongues touching, wet and slippery muscle, as her hands lift his t-shirt. A moan at the back of her throat, coming out uninhibited, as he pressed his body against hers. Fumbling hands and shortness of breath.

"Stop," he whispers, stepping back. "Stop!"

"I'm sorry, I didn't-"

"What do you want, Jemma?" he asks, it takes time all he can think about is her and his thoughts are going staccato. Deserting him.

"What do I want? What do you want!" She stops and jumps down the kitchen counter, landing on the floor with a loud thud. She fixes her shirt and tries to regain some composure. Then she goes and says, "What do you want Fitz, because I'm tired of shagging once a year and not knowing what this is."

"Not knowing? You know what this is."

"The only thing I know is that you made your position clear enough. You didn't want to start anything because we were working together, well, we haven't been working together for a while now." Her voice is an angry crescendo, her voice close to become squeaky, and she looks hurt and let down for the first time since forever.

So they're doing this, he thinks, and they're doing this now. It had to happen eventually and they might as well put it behind them. A car honks outside, the sound echoes in the air and reaches them, distracting them from their thoughts. He looks away and then back at Jemma as they stand motionless facing each other. Their past choices hang in the air, weight on them, a sword above their heads, and mock them for their odd choices and their lack of communication.

"You made your position perfectly clear, but I can't go on like this. Were you looking for an excuse to end it?"

"No! You never said-" He sighs and covers his face with his hands. "Christ, I was looking for a reason to keep going. If you had once in your life said- You might have done something to bring us together."

"Why didn't you say something?"

"I did!"

"You did not, Fitz! You never did. You never said anything other than drawing the line at sex."

"You never asked the question!"

"I did!"

"You didn't."

"I said, would you come with me? And you said no."

"It was a hypothetical conversation."

"It wasn't for me! I was asking you to come with me: England or America. I would have stayed!" She sighs. "Listen, it wasn't an ultimatum and what we've got, the friendship and the sex, I do like it. But-"

"Look, look, ask me again. But this time keep it simple."

"Urgh, Fitz." She laughs and he soon joins her. "I know that you value your life here and your privacy. I don't know what happened, but I'm not stupid, something did happen. All of a sudden..."

"If you decide to leave again, I don't want to be the one who loses out, Jemma."

America isn't for him and he has no intention of trying it out - it's distant and has nightmarish connotations. He'd never fit in, that fancy life in across the Pond. The luxury and pomp.

"You won't. I didn't... I didn't come to see you in Sunshine on Leith or to say a last goodbye to the theatre were all of this started. I got tired, I'm bored to death with that place. Bored to death with my life."

"Are you going through a midlife crisis at the ripe age of thirty-two?" he asks.

"Maybe. I'm just trying to figure out what matters, what I want to do with life."

"Are you saying that because I'd never move to the States? Because It would be bloody tragic." He pauses and studies her attentively. She looks honest, raw and vulnerable. "I would mind, but maybe I'd... You're serious!"

She gulps loudly and looks away.

"You are!"

"Don't judge me, please."

"I'm not. I never would, could judge you." He stops and steps towards her. "What's your plan? Because you must have a plan."

"Go back to school, I don't know. Figure things out." Jemma takes his hand, their fingers curl at the contact and dance before lacing. "I want to slow down and I certainly don't want to keep flying back and forth, across the Atlantic. I want us to be together, explore the future. I want to be tired at the end of the day, but in a good way. Feel satisfied and content. You seem to have figured it out rather nicely."

"Do I?"

"Oh, yes." She kisses him and tugs at his shirt. "Imagine the headlines. Hollywood's sweetheart leaves LA! Seduced by unknown Scottish actor."

"Oh, I'm going to seduce you alright," he jokes and kisses her neck. "And I'm not unknown, I've got two Oliviers, you know?"

"It's the rolled r-s. Sucker for a bit of the brogue."

"Och-aye," he replies, blatantly exaggerating with his accent. 

Jemma laughs. "Stop it, you sound ridiculous."

"Well, you started it," he replies as they stumble towards the bedroom.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Edinburgh during the Fringe is positutely amazing. A+,10/10 would recommend.  
\- A two-hander is a play written for two people.  
\- The idea behind the on collaboration video is a short film called On Collaboration that features Rufus Norris and Rory Kinnear (two of the very best!!)[you can find it here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=10Ln-aFZqBo)  
\- Please watch sunshine on leith, it’s ever so lovely!!  
\- There really is a gigantic Costa cup on the way to Portobello and there is a “The Pond” in Bath Street.  



End file.
